Indistinct
by theskylarksings
Summary: "Sherlock?" John frowned. "Is that a neighbor?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled lightly. "Not quite." His bewilderment must have shown, because she continued, "He's a ghost, dear." Then she turned and began descending the stairs, saying something about settling all the paperwork now, if he didn't mind. And that was that. / Ghostlock AU. I own nothing!
_I've read some good Ghostlock here and there, and the idea gripped me and wouldn't let me go. Expect inconsistent updates, as I am currently quite a bit busier than I would like. I don't own any of the loveliness that is BBC Sherlock. If it ever goes on the market, however, I will be first in line. — Sky_

•••

Of course John had responded to the newspaper advertisement. A two bedroom flat, with a good location, and at an excellent price? Really, he was surprised no one else had snapped it up before he did.

But according to the landlady, a sweet elderly lady named Mrs. Hudson, no one had lived in it for longer than a few weeks since she had started renting it out.

"That's strange," he said. True, the kitchen had a strange chemical smell to it, and the furnishings were outdated — the wallpaper in particular looked to have been there since Victorian times — but the flat as a whole seemed a great value.

"It's not all _that_ strange," Mrs. Hudson replied, "not with Sherlock about. Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "I meant to tell him you were moving in."

John frowned. "Sherlock? Is that a neighbor?"

She chuckled lightly. "Not quite."

His bewilderment must have shown, because she continued, "He's a ghost, dear." Then she turned and began descending the stairs, saying something about settling all the paperwork now, if he didn't mind.

And that was that.

•••

John moved in the next day. It took him a bit longer than he expected, between his leg giving him fits and a particularly unwieldy box that absolutely refused to fit through the doorframe no matter which way he turned it. He eventually gave up, slamming the box on the floor in frustration. Well, in the event he needed his reference books before tomorrow, he knew where they were.

Once he had all the boxes upstairs, he eased himself into one of the two armchairs in the sitting room, leaning his cane against his leg.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew the light filtering through the slatted blinds had faded from a fresh yellow to a muted silver. Also, the TV was flashing the latest news and his cane had migrated to the kitchen. Odd.

He rose, putting much of his weight against the wall, and retrieved his cane. It had somehow adjusted itself to its full length. John sighed, hobbling back to the sitting room. He nicked the remote from its precarious perch on the arm of the opposite chair and turned off the TV. Then he set about fixing his cane.

As soon as he sat down he realized the news announcer was still babbling away. He pushed the power button, and the picture died. Returning his attention to the cane in his lap he began loosening a screw. The picture snapped on.

John glared at the set. Turned it off again. Stared at the screen until he was satisfied that the TV was well and truly off. But as soon as he looked away, it was back on again. Broken. It figured.

He sighed and started unpacking instead. The box of dishes rattled into the kitchen. The toiletries made their way into the bathroom. The linens went into the bedroom. He started hanging up his clothes, and noticed a strange chill in the room. A draft, he supposed, in a flat this old. Where was the thermostat in this place anyway?

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called. John concluded the answering silence meant she couldn't hear him, so, he awkwardly made his way across the room with his too-long cane and opened the hall door. "Mrs. Hud–"

The door slammed shut in his face. Bloody drafts. He threw it open again, only to have it close with a resounding crack. He struck the door with the base of his cane, growling in frustration. Then he retreated to the sitting room again. The news reporter seemed to grin smugly.

"Shut up," he said.

After locating the thermostat next to the bathroom, he returned to the bedroom, only to find the clothes he had hung scattered across the closet floor in a messy heap. The bloody heck was wrong with this flat?

He let the clothes be for the moment and turned to putting the sheets on the bed. Suddenly the floor lamp flickered and went out. John gave an aggravated huff and turned on the ceiling light instead. But the switch didn't work. Of course the power goes out the first night in the new flat.

Suddenly a low voice crawled up his spine. _"Get out."_

John whirled with a gasp. The bedroom was empty.

•••

Eventually he decided to order takeout. There wasn't really any particular reason he had to come into the sitting room to use his cell phone. Maybe it had something to do with the strange shadows on the bedroom wall, or the eerie screeches echoing through the vents. What was that, anyway? A violin? Or maybe he was just being silly, and it was just an old building with new quirks he hadn't yet gotten used to.

 _Tap. Tap._

In one fluid motion John leapt to his feet, tugged his Browning from his waistband, and dashed into the kitchen, where the noise had come from. Instead of an intruder, as he half-expected, he found the fridge open, and an array of conspicuous beakers on the top shelf.

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._

He ran to the front door and threw it open. A very startled delivery boy stared back at him with wide eyes.

John hurriedly put away the gun and muttered an apology.

After dinner, he stared at the blinking cursor on his "New Blog Post" screen for about an hour before going to bed.

In his nightmares, the rap-tap-tap of gunfire was replaced with eerie footsteps, and the screams with the screech of a violin.


End file.
